


Here's My Wishlist, Darling

by ergo_existence



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-23
Updated: 2014-09-23
Packaged: 2018-02-18 12:48:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2348951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ergo_existence/pseuds/ergo_existence
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His monologues weren't the only detracting factor.</p><p>So it's really a puzzle of fate how they meet. And why they stay.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Here's My Wishlist, Darling

**Author's Note:**

> Motivation came from the abyss. Also a lovely kaikainagrif.  
> (And my older fic - Ode to Felix - I deleted, so, here's my retribution for that piece). Comments are appreciated, as always.

Jarring edges. Planes taking in and taking off; scatters of voices, low and high, pitches reverberating off the walls. Locus scans the mammoth hall, the arrival ships. Here’s where it begins.

Locus wasn’t his name then, but in recalling of the memory he _is_ Locus, then, before, now, future: Locus is a concept. Locus is what he desires to be and _is._ That’s what Felix often overlooked. Felix took out the characteristics that he didn’t like, comforted the ones he did. Locus isn’t just a trying picture of order. Locus, to Felix, is an indelible horror; a follower and a leader; he is a mixture of roles Felix loves and hates, because that’s what they are. Opposites of one within and terrible, horrible, killers, murderers. As they are.

But then, then in memorial naïveté, Locus is only at the start of beginning, only paving the rocks to his helmet, to what he knows and what he will become. And that’s all right—perfection comes slowly in moulding, leadership is pruned.

The meeting of Felix isn’t there, where he becomes something acquainted with rifles and training and listening to the call of the military men and women with all their kings and horses. Though Locus, he likes beginning with the thrill and drum of learning; of not quite being Locus yet but he is Locus, glazed over with not a nostalgia. Not a longing. Perhaps a rewriting, or a new way of interpreting himself of that time.

After all that, though, after relocation in the Great War, he incidentally he sees Felix—out of place, a canvas of colour where there should be green and grey, muddy, he is Technicolour beside black and white—in the rec lounge. A damp little room tucked underneath heavy security upon layer and layer of the base, some dry planet godforsaken and sought out by human and Covenant alike.

He shuffles cards and has a cigarette – Locus frowns – balanced between his lips, and leans back on his chair precariously. Locus already is disappointed by the smoke wisping around Felix’s head, a shroud covering the jet black hair, and the two legs of the chair cocked up. He almost wants to lightly tap them, watch the quick shock on Felix’s face as gravity does it duty.

Locus opts not to, and only because one of the other soldiers – he thinks their name might be Henry – is standing up from the table with a grimace on his face, muttering _he’s a cheater_ and grumbling _not playing again_.

He scorns cheaters, so Locus sits down in front of the Cheshire-grinning man. He composes his face, despite the disgust at piercings (all with inflamed skin around the holes) and the undercut, the loveheart shape of bare scalp shaved out of the growing hair.

“You playin’?” he’s asked. His voice is nonchalant but there’s an edge of competition, of playfulness too.

The chair lands with a thud, Felix uncaring to the loud noise.

There are two soldiers beside him, in their chairs, watching tensely, one with a hooked nose and bright red hair that reflects the light of the hanging above, but still looks oddly bland, the other something of an amalgamation of everything Locus can’t bother to remember.

“It would seem so.”

Locus doesn’t know how to play poker, eyes flicking to the chips.

He hasn’t ever been bothered with it, with the connotations of the game to him: a game originating from Earth, he’s always assumed it to be the cigar-smoking types that played it, mold in the corner of the room, lights with graveyards of dead moths.

It’s not far off the mark.

“You got that newbie look on your face,” Felix remarks, slamming the cards onto the table with a hollow thud. “Do I have to teach you how to play?”

“No,” Locus says so tersely, lies.

“I have different rules, though.” Felix hums and bites his lip, cups his jaw. “I reckon you’ll need a helping hand.”

“Is that so?”

“Oh, yeah. See that guy sulking over there?” He bobs his head over to the right, suggesting the one who’d left before, seated with his arms crossed, talking to what would be a friend. “He didn’t _want_ to know how I play. And they’re my cards, so my rules.”

Locus considers this.

“You look like the brooding type,” Felix relent, pursing his lips. “Go sit in the corner or something, wouldya?”

“Tell me how to play your game, then.” Locus crosses his arms and narrows his eyes for a second. Whether or not Felix has noticed he doesn’t play, normally, or he’s really just the arrogant type, or _both,_ as it seems, Locus doesn’t particularly care then. He’s not the _brooding_ type.

(He learns, later, Felix is both observant _and_ arrogant).

With every instruction he gives to Locus, he delivers so with a condescending tone to the end – _you got that? You look a little troubled – oh, I hope I wasn’t talking too quickly – how about we slow this down a bit._

“ _Enough_ ,” Locus says by the end of one of his monologues about _and when I played with this guy one time, you won’t believe it, he wouldn’t take off his_ clothes _I mean come on—_ “I understood you the first time.”

“But it was interesting!” Felix puts one elbow on the cold metal table, raises a finger to point. “I tell you, if you kept listening there’s this _great_ part where—”

Locus notices, outside the bubble of Felix, the other two present before have left quietly.

“—and then _I_ say, well, if you’re going to think wearing leopard print underpants is going to get you _laid_ you _shouldn’t_ have worn them to strip poker. I think we should play strip poker—”

“Will you be quiet? The others have left.”

“And nobody’s filled in? Well, I guess I’ll have to bid you good night, old pal,” Felix says, hastily pushing his chair back and standing. “It’s too bad you didn’t wanna listen to the ending. I was in riots.”

Locus waits for him to leave but he doesn’t, continues standing there with an expectant look on his face.

“And I thought you were a good one.” Felix grunts. “I’m going.”

“A good one?” Locus says as Felix takes two steps. “A good _what_?”

“I thought you were gonna, you know, play well. Not sit there like I’m gonna _walk off_ without you throwing a fit and stopping me,” he replies as he pauses. “You’ll probably go write in your diary now or something.”

“Is that so.”

“Uh huh.” Felix leans against the side. “Bet you write about all the hot guys that reject you. Ooh, _and_ how bad the mess hall food was. But then again, everybody does that. Can you believe the chicken the other day?”

“It was fine.” Locus then decides to abandon the conversation. What did he _expect_ from Felix – or the nameless idiot then – so he stands just the same, though his chair doesn’t scrape across the harsh floor.

“Oh, don’t run _away_ ,” Felix says presently, seats himself back down. “C’mon. I promise I won’t annoy you. What’s your name, big boy?”

He does, in fact, annoy him. Especially after Locus wins.

“That—that was _cheating_ right there,” Felix says, scandalised. “I watched you—you, oh gosh, you’re _good_.”

Locus examines the glint in Felix’s eye.

“Let’s do this again.” Felix grins. “Name’s Felix, if you do names.”

Names aren’t just names. Names chosen by oneself are names with meaning of individual intention; understanding of legacy, understanding of origin. The name Locus was given didn’t suit his future, what he wanted to be. But he wasn’t Locus then and Felix knew Locus before he was Locus.

He was there for the creation of Locus. Maybe Felix _wanted_ that transition, _wanted_ that Locus, that pure idea, fatal flaws of pre-Locus and all.

So maybe that’s why he stuck.

\--

“Nice helmet, by the way,” he says, another time across their table. “I saw you sign off those papers. Is it a fashion statement?”

“It has quality and durability. Better for stealth types. Do I need more justification for you, Felix?”

“Nah.” The familiar action of Felix shuffling the cards is a soothing one, if Locus ever associated anything calming with Felix. “Saw you out there the other day on patrol with it. I think one of the other guys peed their pants.”

Locus turns his head to notice somebody staring. He’s not sure who. They don’t really matter, now or then.

“Yup. That guy.” Felix snorts, rolling his eyes. “I knew you were an intimidating type. All spooky.”

“You said I was the brooding type.”

“Well, yeah, all right, you’re both.”

Locus doesn’t sigh. If he’s one type he’s that. “Do you suppose we’ll begin?”

“I dunno. You think no one plays because we both cheat?”

“I don’t cheat.”

“Yes, you do,” Felix says quickly. “I _know_ you do.” He coughs. “Why don’t we invite somebody else to play? You’re a bit boring.”

“Am I.” He doesn’t say so as a question anymore to Felix, when given a statement about his personality like that – really, it’s a theatre for Felix. It’s routine.

“Yup. I could call my grandma up before you make a decision on anything. I could get lemonade. I could _make_ lemonade before you talk to someone of your own free will. I bet when you’re out with other people you just stand around and glare at everybody. That’s why you got that helmet so you can’t even do _that_ , they just get this Vader look—”

“ _Felix_ ,” Locus hisses. “Can you ever—”

“I’ll play,” a voice says, behind his back. It’s feminine-sounding, rough. “Or are you losers too scared?”

“We’re not losers, thanks,” Felix says. “You up for a game, huh. Sit down then, lady.”

“I’ve got a name.” She sits. “But you don’t need to know it. Don’t call me ‘lady’.”

“Well, all right then.” His eyes flick to Locus’, and Locus nods.

By the end of it she’s going to win, for sure—Locus didn’t account for her to know how they play. It’s an oversight.

He chooses then to never allow oversights to be the defining factor in his decision on how events will play out, at the end of a game.

(She doesn’t win.

The nervous look Felix gives him portrays a sense they’ll lose this; she banks on it.

Felix plays dirtier than he).

\--

“Hear there’s a big fleet coming.”

They’re not connected in any way outside the poker. Or the table. Between daily patrols and exercises and so on and so forth, the orders they followed, the soldiers they were, this was all they had. Felix was as casual as a cat outside of all of it. _Big fleet coming_. It’s the daily post for him.

“Yes,” Locus says, looking up to Felix’s bored expression.

“I don’t wanna play.”

“Fine.”

Locus stands and then—“No, come on, don’t go.”

“Felix.”

“Shh, shh,” Felix hushes. “Don’t mind me. How about we do some target practice?”

Locus waits. Watches Felix childishly look away and fiddle with his hands, ignores the staring.

“You can go first,” he says, dragging it out.

With that they go off, traipsing through the hallways and quarters and assembling their gear – Felix saying, _really got that blank look going on_ and Locus doesn’t hit his shoulder – and, in the night time that came around once every three standard Earth days, they practised on whatever they could find. Bottles from the waste in the mess hall they scavenged, sometimes Felix even moving his scope towards a soldier on nightshift, which Locus realised before he made the shot and stopped him from doing so.

They had an image to upkeep, after all. And sometimes – _sometimes_ – Felix removed his helmet, looked at Locus like, _what’d you think of that_.

And Locus could only say he might have done it, too.

If it’d have been an order, maybe.

\--

“ _Felix!_ ” he shouts, as a Sangheili and Unggoy roll behind his partner. He watches it in slow motion: and he, he speeds through in fast-forward, and shoots both – two hits – and disarms them in time to kill them, finally, with one heavy swipe of his gun. His sniper rifle was ineffective for this closer combat, and he’d reluctantly left his earlier vantage position to ensure Felix’s hubris didn’t leave him open to stealth attacks, as so.

Felix doesn’t comment on this, for once.

He’s not sure how long the fighting is, perhaps days, perhaps hours – but he promises to himself that after this, brutal attacks such as these must be quick, for effectiveness, and thoroughness in planning would be required. Not the reckless dropships of the Covenant.

They’re the only ones left.

“So it’s just us, _partner_ ,” Felix says, not even out of breath or tired, just pats Locus on the back.

“Yes.”

“Should we ring up Command and let them know what a good job we did?”

“It wasn’t necessary to kill the others alive, you realise? That was foolish.”

“Good fun, though.”

“Nobody ordered you to.”

“Who needs orders?”

“ _We_ do. We are soldiers,” Locus says, lowering his gun after their final survey, search, checks for pulses, shots to twitching heads.

“ _Yeah_ , okay, I’m gonna be a mercenary,” Felix justifies, returns his gun to his back, takes out one of his prized knifes. He throws it in the air, catches it. “Are you just gonna stand around and be a _boring_ soldier?”

“Soldiers have rules. Soldiers have strict alignments and morals.” He watches Felix juggle his knife.

“Mercenaries do what they want.”

“Mercenaries aren’t paid if they consistently opt to follow their own whims.”

Felix quiets at that for a moment, says, “Well.” He clears his throat, rests his hand on his hip. “As long as I get some money. And maybe some fun, too.”

\--

Locus is freelance, for a while. He works by himself diligently and quietly, hones his skills. He sits in stores and watches others; watches them coast by, some dumb and shallow, some quiet and reserved; wonders where Felix is—knows full and well, they worked together better than anybody else, if he could describe it like that.

He does. But when asked about the second survivor of that particular bloodbath, he doesn’t comment but for: _War is war. Soldiers do as they’re told._

“But what about the _murder_? How does that _sit_ with you?” one journalist asks, managing to grab a hold of him for one afternoon. He’s been down on work.

“It is a job. You see this as a job. Do you worry about your questioning tactics?”

She responds with something airily that he forgets now, dismissively.

All Felix says when Locus contacts him again is, _oh, you want a game_?

Felix’s dwelling is tiny but clean, nameless in a row of apartments on apartments in some far-off planet that’s a planet as any other.

“I still have the set of cards, you know,” Felix says, standing at his oven, tossing bacon in the pan. There’s a jar of nut butter sitting on the bench and Locus swears to himself if Felix mixes the two he’s leaving.

(Felix did mix the nut butter and the bacon, and he did stay—he doesn’t think of the conclusive reason to that, but he does scowl).

"Sentimental."

He doesn’t stay for only poker and leaves with scratches down his back. He’s not sure when the word _partner_ gained another context for them. A natural transition, maybe, with Locus. 

"It's our secret, honeybunch," Felix says, right before Locus is out the door.

\--

One mission goes badly. It’s an error of Felix’s – he doesn’t monologue, surprisingly, one of his other flaws, instead spending time with his helmet off,idly checking for scratches. He’s shot in the gut by a hidden sniper. Luck is on their side said sniper doesn't have good aim.

“ _Felix,_ what did I _tell_ you?” Locus hisses after locating safety, behind some rubble of a car, underneath a broken streetlight. He perhaps faults himself for stalling to scold Felix, but nonetheless.

Felix groans as his clutches his wound, where only the Kevlar suit covered. Locus knows he’s not groaning in pain. He’s groaning at Locus’ lecturing. As he does every time. “You keep me around anyway.”

Locus knows he’s right and Locus wants to know why he should be wrong.

\--

“I’m gonna rub this in your face _so_ much afterward,” Felix says, sniggering beside Locus’ crouching form. “It was your fault this time.”

“It’s a minor transgression.”

“Pfft, whatever,” he says. “Still.”

“We would be better if you didn’t play those _incessant_ pop tunes over your radio between acquiring the target.” Locus applies the medi-gel, he more accurate with it than Felix—Felix quick but sloppy.

“Oh, use your _big_ threatening voice on me.” Felix reloads his rifle. “Hurry up. Just mute your radio if you wanna whine less.”

“I do not _whine.”_

 _“_ Then quit getting worked up over stuff like that.”

Silence is far more punishing to Felix so Locus ensures he focuses on his leg, intent.

“Not gonna respond? Okay, I can work with that…”

He lets out an angry breath and commands, “Felix. _Quiet._ ”

“Sure. Okay.”

“I _said—_ ”

“I’m not sayin’ anything, but on my radar we’ve got three hostiles. How about I throw a grenade to keep _them_ and _their_ pretty mouths shut?”

“You don’t have a pretty mouth.” He’s lucky then he’s finished, but still, rash plans of Felix _do_ sometimes work out, if he’s giving credit to his partner. Which he tries to avoid because it goes in Felix’s ear and right to his head.

Felix _mhmm_ s and says, “Well, I think we oughta hit them head-on anyway. Are you good?”

“Yes.”

“Let’s go then, buddy,” he says, extending a hand. Locus takes it, stands up easily, if somewhat shakily. “I think we can almost head home.”

“Don’t call me ‘buddy’.”

(He calls him ‘buddy’ a lot after that, usually facetiously.

Locus becomes used to it).

\--

Word of mouth spreads quickly. He’s pinned as the man who does the job and Felix is said to be this side of the galaxy’s politician in making. If he were a politician. He kills people for a living. (Locus wonders if Felix maybe started that rumour himself, but he has no proof).

The process of Chorus’ excavation and clearance begins as a blur. He and Felix are contacted. Control – who has worked with them in the past, so they are no stranger to the means of communication – presents them a deal. Locus is given command over his own pickings, to accompany them—shadows in the background, lingering, the silent work that needs to be done. Hands of the Iron ruler on Chorus.

“We’re gonna be _so_ rich. No more cheap clothes. Oh. _Oh_.” Felix leans his head against the rest of velvet chair, his pride and joy of any of his belongings. The sight’s become the rest between their contacts and landed targets. “I’m gonna retire and have like, the _biggest_ TV. You don’t even _know._ I’m gonna buy a moon. I’m gonna _live_ on a moon. I’m gonna name the moon _after me_.”

Locus perches on the end of his own armchair, nylon, pine, wine stains on the neckrest. “You cannot rename a _moon_.”

“Yes, I can. If I own it.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs.

“I can. _Watch me_.”

\--

Memories come and go.

They bleed in your mind, grow, assume some kind of powerful control over you; give you something that lives in the back of your mind. A certain smell. _Walk into a room. Taken back to_ that _time. Cards on the table_.

But you cast away those—you learn not to let them consume. Some do. Some don’t.

Locus learns quickly sentimentality is a devil of its own kind. And devils lurk behind curtains, breathe in sins that live in routine, that dissociate from your own behaviour.

So he pronounces— _I am a soldier._ He wears it. He wears it as a badge, as armour, as his helmet; Locus, Locus. Memories are unneeded when you look to what you are, and sometimes, what you will be.

“It’s a good name,” Felix says one day, banter on radio Locus _hates_ because it’s tedium he’s learnt to hate to love. “I think I could pretty easily call you Hat or Helmet, though. Hey, Helmet—”

“Felix, shut up.”

“You’ve never been so _brusque._ Now, c’mon. Are the idiots on your end as much of losers as the ones here?”

“I wouldn’t doubt neither the Freelancer here nor the turquoise one there. Watch your back, Felix.”

“I know you always do.”

“One day I _might not_.” He says it like a threat. It might be a threat. It might be him, conservative for a time where Felix may be the one that outlives Locus. He finds himself not liking the idea of Felix dying.

“Yeah, I dunno, we’ve all got some bets running.” He hears Felix sigh, dramatically. “You’re just such a soldier sometimes, Locus.”

“I always _am_ a soldier.”

“I told you it got boring quick.”

“So how do you justify this, then?” They shouldn’t be having this conversation. They shouldn’t be talking.

Locus doesn’t have any orders from General Doyle or further updates from Control to follow then, so.

“Because we get _paid._ Because it’s _fun._ And we’ve been here for a couple of years, so you may as well enjoy it. Do what you love for work, hey?”

“Felix.”

“Say my name lower, Locus, sweetheart.”

The mute on radio transmission is his best gift.

\--

He has enough time to exhale an exasperated breathe before he covers Felix, with his shield up against the other Reds, Blues, Agent Carolina—not a lone wolf, for once.

He doesn’t say it out loud, but he knows later he can lecture Felix. Maybe Felix will fit in a few quips about how _gosh, you coulda blocked that punch_ or _I bet you had a chit-chat with Wash didn’t you_.

(He does).

\--

Felix doesn’t ever buy a moon. Locus doesn’t ever have the privilege to watch his gleeful grin.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! ❤


End file.
